Black Blood
by Crazy-McWritesalot
Summary: It came as a shock to Helen; the sight of red on blue, her own blood on her glove. She was transported back to 1865, that fateful year. (tag for For King and Country, featuring Helen's mother.


**It is finally here... It took me two years to write this. The idea came while chatting with SpiritHawk7 (thank you), about how we knew nothing about Helen's mother... So I figured her death was a cornerstone in Helen's life.**  
 **So here it is... I'm afraid it's a bit darker than what I usually go for, I dare hope you don't mind :).**

 _It came as a shock to Helen; the sight of red on blue, her own blood on her glove. Her eyes widened, and her heart suddenly raced. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't... Will tried to get to her, taking her by the shoulder, but it was too late. She was transported back to 1865, that fateful year. It was bad enough that she was dying so fast, but fate seemed to be determined to make her suffer, psychologically as well as physically. She brushed her hand against her nose and nearly bumped into Nikola on her way out of the lab. She needed space._

 **November, 1865**

Helen looked up from her book when she heard the front door open and hushed greetings and orders between her mother and the old butler. It was already five, she realized. She had not seen the maid light the oil lamp on the pedestal table next to the sofa she was seating on, and she certainly hadn't noticed that it was already dark outside. She felt the cold night breeze of November brush against her neck when the door of the siting room opened, accompanied by the strong smell of rain and the rustle of her mother's petticoat.

"Good evening," The young woman sing sung, placing her hands on Helen's shoulders to place a kiss on the top of her blond head. "How is my favorite young lady doing?" She asked, coming to seat next to her on the dark green velvet sofa.

Helen grimaced.

"I'll live. Although do you really have to go through this each and every month?" She whined, closing her book and squeezing it against her abdomen.  
She had noticed that applying pressure there lessened the pain of the cramps. Only slightly, but it was better than nothing.  
Patricia smiled, compassion showing in her clear blue eyes, and brushed a curl away from her daughter's face.  
"I'm afraid so, darling. It might not always be so painful, you know. It rarely is a pleasant time of a woman's month, but you will get used to it." She kindly explained. "And then, it takes a while for your menstrual cycle to find stability."

Helen frowned.

"What do you mean by that?"

One of her mother's fingertip came to soothe the hard crease between her eyebrows in a loving way.  
"What I mean, my darling child, is that you might experience a vastly irregular flow over an unpredictable length of time. And you may even wait for more than the usual four weeks before it comes back again. It will get easier once your body has found its rhythm." She ensured.

The young girl's back stiffened. She had read a lot on the matter, but it seemed that no matter how much you learnt on such topics, one never knew until one experimented the thing. In practice, however, menstruation was a bloody business: messy, embarrassing, and very painful. She felt dirty and exhausted, and worst of all – she was growing restless.

"Mother – What they say about women going mad because of their menstruation is utter nonsense, isn't it?" She asked, needing all the reassurance she could find.  
Patricia bit back a chuckle, but a large smile lit up her face, and she caught her daughter's face between her hands, forcing her to meet her gaze.  
"Do you even need to ask? Helen, do not ever let anyone tell you what is good for you. Trust your judgment, listen to your body, and use your intelligence. And don't go buying whichever pill promises you eternal youth." She lectured.  
A facetious smile appeared on Helen's juvenile face.  
"One would be insane to want to stay fifteen forever." She pointed out.

Patricia winked at her.

"That's quite the motto. I stopped at the apothecary and got you some lady's mantle. It will soothe the pain."

Helen frowned. She had never heard of that plant. Or maybe she had, under its Latin name.

"Now who's the doctor?" She asked, playfully.

Her mother's eyes sparkled.

"I'm sorry I did not go with you today, mother." She sighed.

"Are you out of your mind Helen? You were in no condition to be up and running all day." Patricia was about to add that no one would think less of her because she had not been seen volunteering at the soup kitchen that day, but Helen wouldn't have cared.

She smiled. She admired her daughter for her devotion. She was not helping the poor for the sake of her reputation, but simply because she wanted to make a difference. That was one of the reasons why she had married Gregory Magnus, and she could not have been prouder of their daughter.

"What have you been reading?" She asked, showing the red book Helen was keeping close to her stomach.

The young girl reluctantly handed her the novel.

" _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ " She read, brushing her index against the golden letters on the edge of the book.

"I told father it was not necessary to buy me anything... I think I wasted my breath." Helen said with a sorry smile that had her mother chuckle.

She was absolutely certain that her girl had read each book in the library at least twice. It was true that they were trying to reduce their expenses: Gregory was not popular among his fellow scientists and investors, her wages as a school-teacher was only enough to maintain the house and their three servants, and her own family heirloom would not last them a lifetime – Especially as the sanctuary was expanding every month. However, Gregory dotted on his daughter, and he had not hesitated to take on a job at a nearby dispensary to pay for her education.

"A children book?" She asked, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused by her husband's choice to buy his newly menstruating fifteen year-old a fairy tale.

Helen shrugged. "Same legal status same literature."

This was something else that Patricia admired in her daughter: the fire of justice that burnt inside of her. It shouldn't have surprised her that she had given birth to one of those equal-rights activists. After all, Gregory had always treated his two women as equals. He had always supported them in all their enterprises, pushing Patricia to follow her dream of becoming a school-teacher, and providing Helen with the best education she could receive, and going so far as to let her assist him when he was treating one of the female patients who sometimes consulted him. But she couldn't help but be scared that Helen's stubbornness would get her into troubles. Sometimes, to her utmost shame, she would find herself praying that her darling girl would find a loving and supporting husband who would be kind enough to turn a blind eye on her activism and fierceness. Hoping for a suitor who would love Helen for it was certainly vain, although she had, until the young lady had decided she wanted to become a scientist. That had ended her mother's dreams of seeing her marry altogether. Mainly because Helen wouldn't let any obstacle prevent her from reaching her goal; she would stand her ground and become whatever she wanted to. Even if it took her a lifetime to get there. She would, Patricia was sure, marry for love or not at all.

"My my, Helen. When did you become so sarcastic? It doesn't suit you." She chided, although she didn't have it in her heart to correct her.

Helen sighed and leaned her head on her mother's shoulder.

"It wasn't my intention to sound so bitter. Father informed me of all that is being said about Elizabeth Garrett around the city. I cannot even begin to understand how one can feel such hatred for such a wonderful woman." She confessed.

Elizabeth Garrett was both Helen and Patricia's personal hero. Helen's because she was the first woman to become a licensed doctor, and Patricia's because she was paving the way for other women, young girls like Helen, defying the etiquette and the heavy rules of society so that, maybe, Mrs. Magnus' daughter would not have to listen to so many detractors.

She had comforting words ready for Helen, but their conversation was interrupted when the door of the sitting room opened again, and both Gregory and Anne – the French maid – entered, one after the other, chatting.

"Good evening my beloved ladies." Dr. Magnus greeted while Anne was arranging the tea-tray on the coffee table.

Both Patricia and Helen seemed to liven up at the sound of his voice, and they both smiled up at him. He kissed one lightly on the lips and crushed the other against his chest while kissing her forehead.

"Father!" Helen protested. "You will smother me to death one of these days." She said, wrinkling her nose, unable to totally conceal her amusement.

"Nonsense. How would I look? Murdering the brightest lady England has to offer!" He exclaimed, smiling, before going to sit in his armchair next to the fire.

Patricia thanked Anne for the tea, and the young girl was about to leave the room when she noticed Helen's book sitting on the sofa next to her. Helen followed her gaze. She absolutely loved Anne. She was only a year older, and had been filling the position for three years. When Patricia had hired her, she had been very young an inexperienced, but she was sweet, and polite, and she learned fast.

Her nationality had played in her favour, and Anne had been adopted. She was a cheerful young woman, and she enabled them to practice French. She shared Helen's thirst for knowledge, and thus the family let her borrow books whenever she wished. Helen had even bought books for her in France during her last stay, so that her friend would not be homesick.

"Take it, Anne, I'm sure you will love it." She offered, extending her hand to give her newly acquired book to her maid, who showed her a toothy smile, blushing slightly when she took the leather-bound novel.

" _Oh merci mademoiselle Helen!_ " She said excitedly before quietly leaving the room.

No one would see her again before diner. She'd be in her room, reading as fast as possible before a new task presented itself to her. Helen smiled benevolently and poured tea for everyone.

"Patricia, darling, you look positively exhausted." She heard her father say.

She turned her head to look at her mother, and that's when she noticed it: she was very pale, and her blue eyes glistened.

Helen jumped to her feet and bent to place a hand on her mother's brow, frowning.

"This is hardly necessary Helen. I do feel exhausted, I admit. Nothing a good night of sleep won't cure." Patricia ensured.

Helen shook her head.

"You are running a slight fever, mother. You'd better drink your tea and go get some rest." She admonished.

Her parents exchanged an amused smile, and she failed to catch the worry in her father's eyes.

"I shall, as a matter of fact, listen to your recommendations, Dr. Magnus Junior." Patricia promised, taking a china cup from the table after letting a sugar cube fall in the steaming liquid.

They chatted companionably for a while, commenting on the last news of the world, and sharing their activities of the day. But while Patricia was listening with attention, Helen could tell she was looking forward to the moment her family would excuse her.

That fateful night of November 1865 was not the beginning of Patricia's downfall, although Helen wasn't aware of it. Yet, while London was slowly being swallowed by winter, Patricia Magnus _was_ being chased by the Grim Reaper. Helen was haunted by a feeling she couldn't describe. It was like a living thing trapped inside of her, scratching to get her attention, clutching her heart once in a while.

It finally got out on a fine day, the last Sunday of 1865, while she and her mother were sitting at the piano in the sitting room.

Patricia was weak. She would come home from school pale and with barely enough strength left in her to climb the stairs to her room, where she'd need help to get changed for the night. She forced herself to eat whenever Helen or Gregory shared a meal with her, but otherwise her plate came back to the kitchen untouched – or barely so. She had lost weigh as a result. So much so, in fact, that the laces of her corsets were hanging and had had to be cut.

To Helen's surprise, she had not even fought when Gregory had advised her to stop offering her assistance nightly to the soup kitchen of the neighborhood. She had assented with a soft smile, agreeing that seeing such human suffering as were to be found there had wearied her. She would occasionally get very enthusiastic while reading the newspapers, asking Helen and Gregory whether they were interested in going to the theater or the music hall. Both her husband and her daughter had learnt to answer these spasms of life with a gentle smile and nod, knowing it would bring her joy for a few hours, before she'd eventually reconsider, broken by exhaustion, and ask for their forgiveness before going to bed. No one would go out then, except for that one time when Gregory had taken both his daughter and Anne to the Adelphi to see their favorite play. On their way home, he had stopped to buy flowers for his wife.

White lilies.

That fine, sunny morning of December, Patricia looked pale and thin but otherwise well-rested, and exceptionally cheerful. Her long fingers were running on the ivory keyboard of the piano seemingly of their own accord, under Helen's careful scrutiny. The young girl was frowning and biting her lip, focused on this new melody that her mother had written.

"Would you play the accompaniment?" Patricia asked, knowing Helen would not be able to play this particular piece on her own.

Helen took a look at the scores, considering whether she would be able to follow her mother's fingertips flying on the board. She finally nodded. The melody was fast enough to lose her, but her part was simple enough to match her low musical skills.

"Alright." Patricia began playing again, slower, to ease her daughter into the melody, and Helen followed suit, performing quite admirably for someone who was clearly not made for music. Her frown even disappeared from her brow after a while, and they lost themselves to the music, sharing a moment of delightful connivance, their arms brushing ever so slightly. The only thing drawing Helen to this majestic instrument was how close it brought her to her mother. It seemed that nature had intended for her to sit right beside Patricia and share her passion. They reached the end of the music sheet far too soon, and Patricia frowned, deep in thought. Helen kept silent. She knew better than to interrupt her mother's creative process while the music was still floating in the ether, in a colorful blur that only she could see.

She smiled at last, all signs of an epiphany displayed on her face, and turned to her daughter, her long fair curls bouncing around her head.

"I think it would sound better if we started the second movement on a B flat." She decided, obviously waiting for Helen's opinion, even though she suspected she'd not object, being less acquainted with the flourishes of compositions.

Helen nodded.

"I guess it would."

Patricia pressed a few keys, first trying out her new idea, then comparing it to her first arrangement, and her face lit up.

"Definitely better." Helen agreed truthfully, marveling at how natural it seemed to be for her mother.

The older woman reached for the scores, her bottle of ink and quill to correct the melody; which she did, before it all suddenly started. Years later, Helen would still have the lingering feeling that, maybe, had she not agreed with this change in the melody, she could have prevented her mother's death... She knew it was perfectly impossible, of course, she was a scientist. But in her heart of hearts, she wondered. _No, mother, it is just fine, it sounds beautiful this way. It needn't be changed. Not for anything this world has to offer._ Patricia's thin body heaved, and without warning, her blood was everywhere. On the scores, on the ivory keys, on Helen's hands as she panicked. It flowed out of her mouth as easily as the words of love she uttered to her daughter's ear ever so often, as profusely as the wisdom of her thirty eight years on Earth.

The look of sheer awe on her mother's face would haunt her for years on end too, these baby blue eyes full of dread and acceptance of her own mortality, the pure white of her day-dress spoiled with her life fuel mixed with ink... Helen had often imagined how she would react if she was ever the witness of an accident. What would she do if someone fainted next to her on the train, or if an old man chocked at the table behind hers at the restaurant? She knew what she had to do to save someone's life in those cases, or at least how to offer medical assistance while a surgeon was being fetched. But nothing had prepared her to this sight. No one had told her she would have to deal with her own mother's death. Her father had not instructed her about what to do faced with a patient who blurted blood out of their mouth. In all of her medical fantasies, she remained calm. But all traces of serenity left her body when she felt the glistening scarlet fluid on her fingers, when her protector, the one who'd given birth to her, looked more dead than alive. She was petrified, and remained so until Patricia heaved a second time, and she was shaken up. She had no wish to be covered in her mother's blood, and she jumped to her feet.

"Anne!" She yelled, suddenly remembering she had to breathe for a sound to come out of her throat. The young maid was in the sitting room in an instant, alarmed by the call which was much louder than the family's usual ones, and her eyes rounded when she saw the puddle of blood and ink running down from the piano, between the keys, onto the Persian rug. She recovered faster than her friend, whispering that she would fetch Mr. Banks, the butler, to get him to run for Dr. Magnus, who was, once again, nowhere to be seen.

Helen would resent him for that until she was introduced to the sanctuary, so long buried right under her feet. But she had no time for that on the moment. She didn't even thank the maid. She turned back to her mother, who was clenching the scores of her last composition in her fists. Helen took her face in her hands, and stared right into her eyes.

"Breathe, mother! Breathe now!" She prompted.

Patricia seemed to calm down slightly, and her eyes filled with love, and, Helen believed, something that looked a lot like pride. And the situation was under control at last. She obeyed her daughter, breathing through her nostrils, as deeply as she could, and she freed herself from Helen's hands before she coughed, spitting blood in her hand. Helen looked around, resting her gaze on the sofa, a few feet away.

"Mother, do you believe you can walk?" She asked.

Patricia nodded, keeping her hand against her mouth, and rose from her seat, unsteadily. Her daughter took her by the arm and led her to the sofa, helping her lie down on her side. She took her shoulder firmly in her hand and forced her to look her way.

"You are going to be fine, alright?" She asked.

The older woman shook her head only slightly, and opened her mouth to answer, but Helen beat her to it.

"Hush, not a word."

She took a velvet cushion from behind her mother's back and carefully placed it under her head, arranging her blond mane as best she could so that they wouldn't be soiled with blood. _Consumption._ God, Helen thought, how could she have ignored the signs that the woman who had raised her was suffering from tuberculosis?

By the look of resignation on Patricia's face, Helen guessed she knew what ailed her.

"How long have you known?!" Helen vociferated when Gregory came down the stairs after he had put his wife to bed.

His jaw twitched under his daughter's insolence, but he let her affront slide. He sighed deeply.

"You were about eight years old. We had started suspecting that something was the matter when time passed and there was no sign of the three other children your mother longed for." he began, pouring himself a glass of brandy. "I thought it was my fault. That the diseases I had contracted during my travel to India had made me unable to conceive. But your mother started suffering from dizzy spells soon after your aunt, Amelia, died of consumption. Her grief might have been one of the reasons why she was sick. Still, that's when we started to fear she had contracted the same illness as her sister."

Helen felt indignation rise up in her throat.

"You've known all this time!" She started, her face coloring with anger. Gregory put his glass down, drops of liquid rising and falling from the hem of the glass to the desk with the force of the impact.

"If I say 'yes', will you stop looking at me as if I had personally murdered her?" He shouted back.

She fell silent. She knew she was being disrespectful, but she did feel outraged that no one had told her anything about her mother having little to no chance of survival.

"It's been seven years... almost a decade..." She began, her voice cracking as she was trying to fight back tears.

"And you were but a child." Gregory sighed, placing his large hands on her frail shoulders.

She shook her head, her blond curls swaying from left to right and back again.

"And so what? A child is not capable of understanding?"

Gregory swept a lonely tear from his daughter's cheek, patiently waiting for her to finish with her rants.

"Understanding what? That your mother was condemned? What would you have done, Helen? Mourned her while she was still alive and as well as she could be?" Helen met his gaze and felt silly. Maybe he was right; telling her sooner would have prevented all of their happy moments. Death would have overshadowed them all, waiting in a corner, watching over them.

"One day, when you have children of your own – which I hope you will, my dearest, for it's the sweetest blessing of all – you will understand that some things are best kept a secret." He ensured before he kissed her forehead.

She had trouble seeing what good could come from lying to one's next of kin, but her anger vanished, replaced with a flooding wave of despair, and tears filled her eyes.

"What are we to do without her?" She asked, her voice that of a scared child.

Gregory took both of her hands in his, gripping them as if his very life depended on her kissed her cheek, brushing a lonely tear away. "We live up to her expectations." He whispered.

"You cannot leave us alone, Patricia. What will become of Helen if you do?" Gregory asked his wife that night, sitting on a chair next to the bed where she was resting.

She was tired, so tired... The cold, heavy hand of death was pulling her from this world, she could feel it. Yet she was fighting it. There were so many things she wanted to tell her husband and daughter...

"She has you, my love." She whispered, a faint smile showing itself on her sweaty, pale face.

He lowered his head.

"I am a bad father. She does not wish to confide in me."

That confession made her laugh, and Gregory was on his feet in an instant, helping her to seat as she broke into a coughing fit that lasted a few seconds. When it calmed down, she touched his arm comfortingly.

"Don't take it personally. I don't think anyone is blessed with the content of Helen's heart." She corrected.

The physician frowned.

"Is it how we raised our girl?" He wondered.

"Some forces of Nature cannot be tamed."

Patricia's words sank deep in Gregory's mind. Yes, he reckoned they had raised her to be independent and free. Her silence had to be the other side of the same coin.

"You cannot leave me when I'm so close to finding the cure." He sighed at last.

"The source blood?" His wife asked, her voice betraying only a faint trace of disdain. To her, this stupid quest had taken their time away, no more.

"It is in Bhallassam, I know it is. If I could only find in which temple it is kept, then – Then you would be cured."

Bhallassam would eventually entrust its secrets to Gregory Magnus.

Only his wife would then be long dead and buried.

 _Nikola waited until the last note of the old piano had faded, vibrating in the air of the library, before making his presence known._

 _"I never knew you could play."_

 _Was that his voice? It sounded suffocated with sadness… Hell that was not what he wanted to sound like. Yet, Helen was sick, and that happy waltz could not possibly have sounded sadder than the way Helen had played it. She tried to conceal it, but he heard her sniff before she turned her head to him, flashing him the faintest of smiles._

 _"Oh I can't. Only this piece."_

 _He pointed an accusing finger at her._

 _"Most of us, common mortals, can barely play F_ _ür Elise. C'mon, what's your secret?" He asked, coming to sit next to her at the piano._

 _She lowered her gaze. It was clear she had shed a few tears, and Nikola felt less stupid for having cried himself, just a little bit, mind you, while listening to her heart wrenching rendering._

 _"My mother was a gifted pianist and composer," She paused to breathe in deeply, moistened her lip, and when she felt Nikola's arm wrap around her shoulders, she closed her eyes, leaning into him with a grateful smile._

 _"Is it…" Her friend hesitated, and she nodded._

 _"Her last creation. The scores were badly damaged, so I've got no way of knowing whether what I remember really is what she imagined. It sounded better when she played it." She confirmed._

 _She had written the scores from memory, a very long time ago, but she didn't need them any longer. Her fingers knew their way on the keyboard. She could have played with her eyes closed. She had, actually. Nikola's hand gripped her shoulder, wordlessly supporting her._

 _"Anything sounds better when it's performed by someone we love." He pointed out._

 _At that, Helen leant her head on his shoulder, her hair grazing the soft skin of his neck, and she sighed._

 _"You know, Nikola," she began, her voice soft and defeated "My grandmother died when my mother was only eight, and her sister died from tuberculosis too, leaving two boys behind."_

 _Nikola kept quiet. There was no point in saying he was sorry. She was enumerating old facts. The pain was blurred by the centuries._

 _"So when I in turn became a mother, I was scared that Ashley could grow up without me." She let her words sink in. "Not that I believe in curses."_

 _"Of course not." Nikola agreed._

 _"But now, what does it matter if this disease is killing me? Ashley's gone." She sighed._

 _Her friend shook her slightly. He could not let her speak such nonsense._

 _"Who's going to keep an eye on me if it does?" He pointed out._

 _She huffed. Maybe he was right._


End file.
